


The Motions I've Been Going Through Have Failed

by Emamel



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character study (sort of), Drabble, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mentions of Claustrophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 23:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18376022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel
Summary: So what does Jon do with his rib these days?





	The Motions I've Been Going Through Have Failed

**Author's Note:**

> Not a lot to say on this one, I originally intended to make something funny, look how that turned out. Find me on tumblr at theaceace, where I like to shout about podcasts, and the Magnus Archives especially.

Jon uses his rib as a doorwedge for his office. He needs to do something with it, and this way he can - ha! - keep an  _eye_  on it. Statement-givers, on the occasions they come down to the archives to be recorded in person, don’t seem to notice it. He  _does_  get some pretty weird looks and mutters from the others when they have to come and see him for something, but weird looks and mutters are still, somehow, better than before when he got nothing at all.

All except for Daisy.

Daisy, who meets his gaze without flinching, who stares at the bone for a few seconds before nodding to herself. Like she expected this; like she’s just confirming something she already knew.

Daisy, who looks between the rib, the door, him, once. Daisy, who  _gets it._

It had never really occurred to him, before, just how small his office is. He couldn’t quite touch both walls with his arms outstretched, but he could certainly touch the precarious piles of books and stacks of boxes, all full of research he never needed to look over. If he pushes his chair back from his desk hard enough, it bumps against the shelves and threatens to collapse them. The archives themselves - and by extension, his office - are all part of a carefully controlled climate. There’s no windows to open, no breeze to tempt through.

Only stagnant air - and how is it he never noticed how  _heavy_  old paper smells before, or how dust feels so  _thick_  and  _earthen_  in his lungs?

But - the door is open. Anchored open, with a rib already scratched in long, meandering patterns. At any moment, he can get up, walk out the door, make himself a cup of tea that never tastes quite as good as - well. He can make himself a cup of coffee.

It was one of the things he’d looked at, when preparing to take on the role of head archivist - the benefits of an open-door policy for employees. If he were so inclined, now, it might even be enough to make him laugh. No one comes to him willingly, these days.

But. He needs  _something_  to do with his rib. And the door stays open - if not welcoming, then  _there_. If not tempting, then  _possible_. And if, sometimes, the door swings shut on its own - like some unseen something had kicked it away - it isn’t enough to make Jon afraid. Weary, perhaps; but he gathers himself, drags himself away from the statement and goes to open the door again. Pretends not the see the end of a coat disappear around the corner. Pretends not to recognise the apple and chamomile scent wafting from the mug left behind.

Jon opens the door, slips his rib beneath the frame, and takes a deep breath.


End file.
